


Chocolates for Mister Holmes

by StarsAndStitches



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Chocolates, Greg is a Saint, Gregcroft, M/M, Mycroft has a headache, Mycroft is a mess, Mycroft loves chocolate - in all its forms, Mystrade Valentines Calendar 2018, POV Alternating, Rating may change with later chapters, Valentine's Day, anthea ships it, may include calories, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-03-25 04:43:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13826727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsAndStitches/pseuds/StarsAndStitches
Summary: For Mycroft Holmes, Valentine's Day cannot be over too soon. A little bit of chocolate however, is always welcome to sweeten his day.From chapter 4:“Bienvenue à chateau Lestrade!” Greg announced flamboyantly, “tours start every hour at the south gate.”Mycroft was not so easily distracted, it seemed. “That woman,” he said pointedly, “appeared quite interested in your company.”In my cock, rather, a naughty part of Greg's brain supplied immediately. Aloud, he hummed non-committally. “Umm... did she? She can do that, for all I care.”And ten outta ten for noticing that, Mr. Holmes, his inner voice added unhelpfully.





	1. Touch Down

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer** : I only own the plot of this story. The characters and plot of “Sherlock” belong to the BBC, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. And humankind is forever indebted to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for conceiving Sherlock Holmes.
> 
> This is my first Mystrade (or, as I prefer to call it, 'Gregcroft') story and also the first time I try writing romance. And the first time I contribute something to a collection. _Phew!_ A lot of premieres (and quite a bit of stage fright from my side).
> 
> A big “Thank you!” to Mottlemoth for organising the Mystrade Valentine's Calendar! ♥ ♥ ♥ It's such great fun! :D
> 
> “Chocolates for Mister Holmes” was beta-read and brit-picked by the marvellous [TheSoupDragon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSoupDragon/pseuds/TheSoupDragon). Thank you so much, my dear, for your wonderful support and friendship – and your constant encouragement (read: nudging) to try my hand at a romance story! ♥ ♥ ♥
> 
> All remaining errors are my own. Also, English is not my first language, so please be kind. Kudos and comments are always appreciated. ;)
> 
> This story started as a short one-shot, only two chapters. As many of you lovely folks asked for a continuation I'm very happy to continue it. Your response is very encouraging. You're great!!! ♥  
> Enjoy reading! :)
> 
>  **Note** : Non-English language words and phrases are explained in the end notes of their respective chapter.

When the cabin attendant announced that they were starting their final descent to Heathrow, Mycroft breathed a quiet sigh of relief. This nerve-wracking journey was coming to an end. _At last_. The small governmental plane had left Tokyo Narita Airport shortly after noon local time and an endless leaden afternoon had followed them for close to fourteen hours leaving him weary with an impending headache. Even with the most advanced amenities of modern-day air travel there was barely enough room for his long legs. Sleeping proved to be a difficult matter and he was beginning to feel unpleasantly sticky. Also, his clothes were getting more creased by the hour.

Not much that was pleasant could be said for his present company either, the other members of the British delegation being tiresome at best. Especially the young female undersecretary from the Board of Trade, who acted as the official head of the delegation, had been exceedingly annoying during the ten days of negotiations with their Japanese counterparts. Eager to prove herself, she had ignored Mycroft's calm advice from the background more than once, and put forward unreasonable demands to their negotiation partners to demonstrate her superiority. Had the Japanese officials not known  _Houmusu-san_ for several years and tacitly deferred to his vast expertise on the matters at hand (not to mention his level-headed and polite negotiation style) things could have ended badly. That he was fluent in Japanese and understood and respected their societal customs had also done much to smooth any ruffled feathers. Not that the feather-ruffling undersecretary would ever concede to that.

The bustling city of Tokyo had worn out even Mycroft's stamina. Every time he had ventured out of the secluded conference rooms in government buildings or his admittedly luxurious hotel suite, he had felt... uneasy. Crowded. Exposed. Like he was standing out. The crisp sunny February weather had rendered the city in a sharp light and the gazes of countless strangers upon him had grown oppressive. No doubt, an absurdly tall  _ gai-jin _ with fair skin and a tint of red in his hair, wearing a three-piece suit of finest English wool and carrying a primly folded umbrella – that was a sight to behold. The giggles of schoolgirls and the resentful glares of elderly people had followed him around. Not even the lovely Imperial Palace Gardens, which he had savoured on previous visits, could calm his troubled mind this time. And worst of all, the city had been decked out in garish pinkness, with heaps of tantalising chocolates and banners with nauseating declarations of 'I love you' wherever he went, further aggravating his mental discomfort. Valentine's Day, that hideous holiday of mawkish mating rituals, had gripped the collective fancy of the Japanese nation it seemed. In his younger days, Mycroft had quite liked to travel abroad, but this time...  _ Maybe I am getting too old for this kind of thing, _ he thought wryly and massaged the bridge of his nose to fight the headache. 

Well, it felt good to come home at last. To immerse himself back into the green and pleasant land whose wellbeing he had chosen as his life's work. Home, London. Where he could blend in with the general populace and indulge in familiar pleasures. His favourite Scotch and pastries. The cherished solitude and tranquility of his home. His beloved books and collection of classical music and _film noir._ A few select restaurants. The club. His piano. (There was Sherlock, too, but that was hardly a prospect to look forward to.) And – his breath caught at the unbidden thought he could not suppress – there was _Gregory._ The warm brown eyes like molten chocolate and a smile that could light up the dreariest day did things to him he could not afford to contemplate right now. His schedule was settled. Tonight it would be a light salad for dinner, some catching up with recent events to prepare for work tomorrow and then early to bed to force his body back to Greenwich Mean Time. Meeting up with the man who consumed an absurd amount of his thoughts lately would have to wait, unless there was some Sherlock-related emergency, of course. But as neither Anthea nor John had contacted him with anything like that the chances were slim. 

The plane touched down on a discreet small landing strip off the main area of the airport. Dusk had caught up with them at last, and a mild drizzle welcomed the travel-weary politicians. Mycroft sighed again and let go of the wisps of wistful whimsy. Whilst the other diplomats around him slowly stretched and gathered their belongings he sent a quick text to Anthea to notify her of his safe return to British soil. 

“It's always nice to get home, isn't it, Mr. Holmes?” one of the junior members of the delegation babbled at him while struggling into his coat. “Seeing your family again.” _Idiot!_

“Indeed, Ethan,” Mycroft replied with cold politeness. “Enjoy your evening.”

“And you, Mr. Holmes. And you,” the aspiring young man smiled hopefully. “See you tomorrow then, at the debriefing.”

_ Sycophant! _

When Mycroft emerged into the arrival terminal some twenty minutes later, he was confronted with an onslaught of pink and dark red again. Banners and balloons and garlands, huge advertisements for perfumes, jewellery and expensive champagne hammered into him, insinuating that anybody who did not bring their significant other a rose bouquet of at least £ 50 was a cold-hearted bastard and should forfeit their right of membership within the human race. In the crowd milling around him, couples reunited, hugging and kissing – and passing those fifty-quid-bouquets. It was the most disgusting display of sentiment he had had to endure in a long time. His head began to throb more pronouncedly at the blaring abundance of hearts and roses and he closed his eyes briefly. _Can this annual February madness please be over soon?_ At least he would be safely ensconced in one of his cars soon being driven home by a trusty driver – it was Edwards today like every Wednesday. 

As he neared the exit a figure caught his eye. Amongst the obnoxiously happy couples, hurrying business people and excited tourists, a single man in a grey jacket was standing all by himself, hands deep in his trouser pockets. Mycroft stopped in his tracks. _How could this be possible?_ Surely, that must be a trick his overwrought mind was playing on him. Because over there with his striking silver-grey hair was nobody else but  _Gregory!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Houmusu-san_ ホームスさん: Japanese form of the name 'Mr. Holmes'; could be 'Miss Holmes' or 'Mrs. Holmes' as well  
>  _gai-jin_ 外人: (Japanese) 'stranger', 'foreigner', esp. Western foreigner  
>  _film noir_ : (French) 'black/dark movie'. Black-and-white movies from the 1940s/1950s, mainly crime drama


	2. Pick Up

There he was. No matter how much Mycroft might have tried to fade into the crowd Greg would have spotted him anywhere. There was no mistaking the tall, slim man who moved so gracefully, for anybody else. Greg's heart beat went up a notch or two as he watched his... friend, for lack of a better word, weaving through the throng. He wheeled his suitcase behind him, his umbrella in his other hand and a laptop bag slung over his shoulder; fatigue and annoyance written all over his face. Greg took a deep breath and shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, aiming for casual.

And then Mycroft noticed him. And stopped walking abruptly. Somebody bumped into him – Greg could lip-read an unkind “Oi, watch out!” – Mycroft ignored them. He stood rooted to the spot and stared at Greg, over the distance of fifty feet, struck with astonishment.

To give Mycroft time to overcome his surprise, Greg walked over to him deliberately slowly. _Christ, the bloke looks frazzled,_ he thought. As a detective, he had noticed that Mycroft's movements seemed a bit slower than usual, guarded, lacking their usual confidence and briskness. Creases had manifested in his suit trousers that he would've gone at great painstaking lengths to avoid under normal circumstances. His coat draped around his slightly slumped shoulders, put on hastily, negligently. _He can't wait to get away from here,_ Greg thought, _to be on his own._ And as someone who had seen the politician from close up many times before, Greg also saw lips pressed tight in disapproval, dark circles and lines around the eyes which he secretly adored, their usual bright blue troubled with a lot of grey, the hard set of the jaw, the furrowed forehead indicating a nasty headache. Strained and mentally exhausted. No, Mycroft Holmes was not at the top of his game. Greg sighed inwardly in compassion.

“Evening, Mycroft!” he greeted him calmly, carefully keeping any trace of cockiness from his voice.

Sherlock's brother had regained his wits, it seemed. “Good evening to _you_ , Inspector!” he replied stiffly.

“It's Greg, remember?” Greg smiled at him in what he hoped would be an encouraging manner.

Mycroft nodded curtly but did not utter a word.

 _Well, this is going to be awkward,_ thought Greg. “Had a pleasant flight?”

“Acceptable, yes. Thank you,” Mycroft lied smoothly. His eyes wandered sideways. “Is there...” he cleared his throat, “is there a situation with my misbehaving brother?”

“No, no,” Greg hurried to answer. “Well, not that I'm aware of.” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “As far as I know, all's well at Baker Street.” He was pleased to see the brief flicker of relief crossing the other man's face.

Mycroft leaned onto his umbrella, a bit more relaxed now. “So this is a chance meeting then? How serendipitous.” His lips curled upwards a tiny bit at the corners.

 _Only you don't believe in coincidences, do you?_ Greg smiled to himself at seeing that, and made a non-committal sound. “Serendipitous, indeed.” Mycroft looked out over the crowd again, Greg's gaze dropped. _Now look at us, Myke!_ he thought running a hand through his hair. _Here we're standing like two tongue-tied teenagers with their first crush. Close to each other but not knowing what to say or where to look.  
_

Greg looked down at his feet. His feet in his well-worn brown brogues. Which stood next to Mycroft's polished oxford shoes. It hit him like a brick; the difference could not be more obvious. _What the fuck were you thinking, Lestrade?_ Could he really dare to hope that somebody as elegant and dapper, not to mention handsome and smart and witty and cultivated as Mycroft would be interested in... well, a closer relationship with a second-hand rough like him? Hell, Mycroft bloody Holmes did not _do_ any kind of personal relationship, at all. But there was no turning back now, he had to go on with his plan. And if he was doomed make an utter fucking fool of himself out of it then so be it. At least he'd have tried.

When he looked up again, he realised that Mycroft was still standing there, right next to him, sharing this awkward silence. Nothing indicated that he was about to take his leave. _And he hasn't the slightest idea what his proximity does to me._ The faint smell of his cologne, the far-away look in his beautiful eyes, even the wrinkles on his forehead, all of it made Greg's entire being tingle to reach out and bridge the small gap between them and... _touch him._

Greg took a breath. “You're waiting for your driver, then?”

The younger man turned round to him, slightly peeved. “As a matter of fact I am.” That vertical crease in the middle of his forehead had deepened. “Given that I alerted my PA over half an hour ago, the man should have shown up by now.” The ghost of a smile returned. “Although it would be remiss of me to conceal how much I enjoy your company, Insp–” Mycroft drew a breath himself as if something enormous was about to happen, “... _Gregory._ ”

 _Could you possibly be any more stilted?_ thought Greg. Hearing his full name, though, spoken in that smooth silky voice made his head swim. It was pathetic, really, how much power that gorgeous man held over him. With a single word, three little syllables.

Greg screwed up his courage and went for it. “Funny thing is... he has.”

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him as if he had lost his mind.

“Shown up I mean. Your driver.” Greg tried a mischievous half-grin. “He's standing right in front of you.” He squared his shoulders and looked straight into Mycroft's eyes. “I'm gonna take you home tonight.”

Mycroft gasped. “That's most... irregular.” He pressed his fingertips against his forehead, rubbing lightly. A vein was pulsing in his temple. Was that anger? “If this is a funny little joke at my expense, Detective Inspector, I shall have you know that I'm not amused. I don't have the time nor the patience for such tomfoolery,” he snapped.

Greg's heart sank a bit at the 'Detective Inspector' but he would not yield. “It's not a joke, Mycroft,” he said seriously, “I wouldn't do that to you.”

The man, who according to Sherlock was the British government itself, eyed him suspiciously, deducing him. Greg allowed him do that and let all his sincerity and the... fondness he felt for Mycroft show in his eyes. Apparently pleased with what he saw in Greg's face, Mycroft calmed down again. “My apologies,” he murmured in a more suave tone and then asked “How?”

“Well... I admit it took me some work to get lovely Miss Anthea to agree to this... irregular arrangement. She's quite protective of you, you know. But I'm not easily disheartened when I go for something I want. Copper's instincts.” He grinned again and raked through his hair. “What sold the deal was that your Mr. Edwards jumped at the chance to have the evening off to spend with his missus – today of all days. And I was more than happy to fill in for him. Once I had convinced Anthea that you would be perfectly safe with a senior police officer. And I'm a reasonably good driver. Win-win situation, if you ask me.”

Mycroft blinked in that incoherent way that signalled that a Holmes brain was on the verge of going offline. “Today of all days?” he asked slowly, confused.

“Yeah, it's Valentine's Day. The fourteenth, you know.”

“Oh, it's today?”

“Yep.” Greg stuck his hands back into his pockets and waited for his companion to catch up with the thread of their recent conversation.

It took a minute or two until Mycroft focused on him again. “But why?” he almost whispered, dumbfounded.

Greg smiled at him. “Consider me your Valentine's card, Mycroft.” And as the other man still looked at him uncomprehendingly he explained, “I'm here to make you feel happy and hopefully put a smile on those...” _adorable, alluring, kissable_ “... lips.”

Two most endearing pinkish spots appeared on Mycroft's cheekbones.

Greg took half a step forward, closer than he had ever been before. _This is big,_ he thought, _this is when we make it or break it._ When he had Mycroft's full attention, he looked deeply into his eyes and asked earnestly, “Do you trust me, Mycroft?”

A shaky breath was drawn, the Adam's apple in a pale neck bobbed. For a long while nothing happened. Or everything happened.

And then Mycroft nodded. Slowly, silently. Just once.

Greg's heart burst with joy. And there was no way he could keep that joy inside. _Yeah! I promise you'll never regret this._ And this was his own Valentine's gift! The smile on his face stretched to his ears and his eyes sparkled with happiness. “Shall we then?” And he reached for the handle of Mycroft's suitcase.

“That's... hardly necessary,” Mycroft protested, gripping it tighter. “I can manage that perfectly well on my own.”

“No way. I'm your driver, I take your luggage.” As Greg's fingers brushed over Mycroft's white knuckles, a jolt of sizzling energy raced up his arm and through his whole body. And then Mycroft relinquished the handle.

“C'mon, Myke!” Greg said brightly, “let's get you home. Car park's that way.” _And I'll do my damnedest to make it a Valentine's Day you're not likely to forget, ever._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear fellow Mystrade shippers, would you like to know how the evening unfolds for Myke and Gregory? Please let me know if you're interested in a continuation of this story in the comments! (Rating might also go up in future chapters.) I'll gladly tell you more about it and add more chapters as they are finished.


	3. Lean on

In theory, he knew that his feet must be walking on the polished tiled floor of the airport foyer, because if humankind had invented hovering, he would have been among the first to know. In theory, he knew that his free arm must be swinging rhythmically back and forth as he heard the ferrule of his umbrella clicking on said tiles. In theory. In practice, however, he could not attest to these facts with any degree of certainty.

The only part of his body he was aware of was the spot on his right arm where Gregory's hand held him just above the elbow. Gregory's warm steady hand, the warmth seeping through Mycroft's coat, suit jacket and shirt. Waves of exquisite thrill radiated from the point of contact like they had before, when their hands had touched briefly on the suitcase handle.

And wasn't it a good thing? The hand at his elbow guided him gently but firmly through the sea of strangers. The subtle pressure of strong fingers against his flesh steered him across the hall and onto the escalators with confidence and – did he dare say so? – a touch of pride. As if they were a unit, genuinely belonged together, and Gregory would warn off anybody who would question that. Possessiveness. Mycroft shivered.

“You ok?” Gregory asked quietly from his side, worried. “Not far now. You can rest soon.”

“Mmm,” answered Mycroft, not trusting his voice to be of any use. Were people wondering who this strange dishevelled fellow was that such an incredibly attractive man was escorting him? Probably not, he decided, people were unobservant idiots, mostly. They arrived at the lifts to the car park without him really knowing how they got there. Maybe humankind _had_ invented hovering and they had forgotten to tell him.

A small girl, about four years old, gazed openly at the pair of them from some ten feet away, her head tilted to the side, with the most inquisitive look on her face. She reminded Mycroft keenly of Sherlock at that age. “Mummy,” the girl enquired loudly, “why is that man holding that other man's arm?” Mycroft tried to ignore her, suppressing his annoyance.

The girl's mother blushed a bit in embarrassment. “It's rude to stare, Jessie,” she scolded hastily. “And I don't know why he's holding that gentleman's arm. They're probably friends, dear.”

Jessie was obviously not satisfied with that explanation and still looked at them curiously. Mycroft raised an eyebrow at her, as if daring her to probe into that matter any further. She dared. “ _Are_ you friends?” she asked bluntly. “Best friends, like me and Amy?”

“Yeah, we are,” Gregory replied warmly with a chuckle in his voice, “and that's a good thing.” And before Mycroft could turn round and look at him, surprised, the lift arrived and Gregory lead them both inside. “Have a nice evening,” he called as the glass doors began to close at Jessie's smug “See, Mummy?” and her mother's somewhat sheepish smile.

Once in the lift, Mycroft swayed at the sudden loss of that heavenly hand on his arm. He almost let out a whimper of dismay.

“Whoa, whoa!” his driver of the day exclaimed and the hand reappeared quickly, now higher up on his arm, on his biceps, “easy! You're really knackered, eh?”

Mycroft trembled at the look of concern in the chocolate brown eyes that had followed him to so many dreams and mumbled, “Apologies.” Gregory smiled at him and squeezed his arm. “Don't worry, mate! I'm right here.” _Mate? Don't you s_ _ee, sweet Gregory, that yo_ _ur being 'right here' is why I'm so... discombobulated?_

When they arrived at the correct level and headed towards Gregory's car, the hand at Mycroft's elbow was back to what felt like its rightful place now, and with it came the same intoxicating sensation of... connectedness. At the car, an old and a bit battered second-hand BMW that clearly had seen better days, Gregory opened the door at the passenger's side and gently pushed Mycroft down onto the seat.

“I would've offered you the backseat, that's what you've come to expect, after all,” he prattled as he took the hand luggage and the umbrella and put them there instead, “but I'm afraid it won't meet your standards. You know how it is with kids.” He shrugged apologetically.

Mycroft did not know 'how it was with kids' but he did not say anything on that matter. The kids in question, he knew, were Gregory's niece and nephew, the children of his widowed sister. They visited him often and adored their Uncle Greg – and who could blame them for that?

“Besides,” the pride of New Scotland Yard went on as he stowed Mycroft's suitcase into the boot, “this way you have a bit more room for your... erm, legs.” He came round and slipped into the driver's seat.

Gregory ran both hands over his face and exhaled forcefully. “Better?” he asked in the general direction of the passenger seat.

Mycroft nodded mutely, grateful he was not required to stay on his feet any longer, and took in the new surroundings. Chocolate bar wrappers and crisp bags in a variety of colours, empty plastic bottles. The whiff of old tobacco smoke and peppermint and Gregory's aftershave. A girl's hair-tie in a thankfully un-pink medium blue. Two empty CD cases in the centre console compartment. And an Arsenal cap on the dashboard. Gregory grabbed it hastily and flung it backwards onto the parcel shelf like a frisbee. “It's Davie's,” he explained, as if that mattered. His strong masculine hands gripped the wheel.

“Right,” he breathed, “sorry about the mess, Mycroft. I meant to tidy up. It's not something I'd normally... But Sally called this afternoon. Things got hot with that case we've been working on for weeks. She knew I'd wanna be there when we finally got to that bastard, day off or not. I just got here in time...”

“It's alright, Gregory,” said Mycroft soothingly, to his own surprise. “Your vehicle has a fully functional engine, I presume?”

“Yeah, of course,” his acquaintance-turned-driver looked at him puzzled.

“Then I'd say all the basic requirements to perform the task at hand are met, don't you agree?”

Gregory grinned and all of a sudden looked far more like himself. Mycroft's heart made a curious sideways movement that he was quite certain was anatomically impossible.

Something sparkled in those hazel eyes, “Wait, I've got something for you,” and then Gregory pressed the 'Play' button on the CD player. _Da-dam dadda-dadda-daaa!_ The unmistakable first phrase of 'The Four Seasons: Spring' filled the interior of the car with a sense of hope.

Mycroft's eyes went wide with surprise, a surge of delight rose in his chest. It immediately took him back to the time when Sherlock and he had been rehearsing that piece for Mummy's birthday, Sherlock playing the solo violin part with him accompanying on the piano. Of course, before long his brother's brilliance had left him behind, but still... “Vivaldi?”

“Um-hm.” The grin on that handsome face turned positively triumphant at a surprise gone well. “Not just the _basic_ requirements, eh?” Gregory turned down the volume a bit.

“Most definitely.” Mycroft felt a small smile forming. “But how did you know?”

“Anthea was so kind as to drop a hint or two.”

“I'm not sure I wholeheartedly approve of her attitude concerning disclosure of classified information.”

Gregory chuckled, and their eyes met. A moment filled with Vivaldi and... softness, that left Mycroft short of breath. Gregory looked at him strangely. “And now close your eyes!”

“What?” Mycroft did the exact opposite. “Why?”

The man in the driver's seat made a short exasperated noise. “ Aww c'mon, Mycroft, it's alright. I'm your Valentine's card after all.”

A shiver ran through Mycroft. _Is it possible that he intends to...? No, certainly not. Or maybe he does..._ He complied with the request with bated breath.

The next thing he heard was Gregory rummaging around a bit. The next thing he felt was something being delicately pushed into his hands. A small box. “You can open your eyes now.”

Mycroft did. His gaze fell onto a box wrapped in a paper with very pink and very red hearts. He winced.

“Sorry for the wrapping paper,” said Gregory, “it was the only option. Now open it!” He looked positively giddy.

As Mycroft untied the bow and peeled back the offending paper, he found a cardboard box of... Belgian chocolate truffles. His mouth watered immediately.

“We have to boost your blood-sugar level, Myke,” Gregory explained, grinning, “you look a bit peckish.”

Mycroft was at a loss for words. “That's... Gre-... I don't know...” he stuttered.

“Thank you? For starters.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft mumbled sheepishly. Gingerly he picked one very dark morsel and put it into his mouth. Nobody had to tell him to close his eyes _this_ time.

Dark and sweet and delicious, his taste buds rejoiced at the exhilarating experience, perfectly in tune with the joyful music. A moan that sounded absolutely _sinful_ escaped him, he just couldn't help himself. He heard Gregory laugh. “Now that's the best thank you I could hope for,” he said in a rough voice.

Mycroft opened his eyes again and saw all the other chocolates waiting for him in the box – and two more from the driver's seat. He swallowed. “Nobody has given me anything like that, in a long time. Thank you so much.”

“You're welcome. And you deserve them.”

Mycroft felt the tips of his ears turning warm. “Anthea again?” he asked to change the topic.

“Yeah. She knows you too well, that woman.”

“ _That_ _woman_ is dangerously close to having a serious talk about keeping private things... private,” Mycroft remarked dryly.

“Nah, don't blame your staff! It was all my idea.” There was a mischievous twinkle in Gregory's eyes. “Besides, no harm done. The payment for a DI may not be stellar, but I've yet to revert to blackmailing high-ranking...,” he gestured towards Mycroft, “... whatever you call yourself, for their preferences in music and chocolates.”

And with that he turned back towards the wheel. “We're ready to go then? All requirements met?”

Mycroft nodded. “As they say, ready when you are.”

Gregory's car pulled out and crawled across the car park, joining the line of vehicles queuing to leave. It was full dark now and the drizzle hadn't relented. Mycroft felt his headache worsen and sighed in frustration.

“This might take a while,” groaned Gregory and looked over at him with concern. His right hand raked through his hair and left it exquisitely ruffled. “Why don't you make yourself comfortable, Myke, and have a rest?” he suggested gently. “Have another chocolate, while yer at it.”

 _That nick name again._ “Myke?”

“Er, sorry,” Gregory spluttered as he realised his blunder, “I know you don't like that. Sorry.” He changed the lane in an attempt to get away quicker.

Mycroft watched him with half-closed eyes. Oddly enough,... _How come that it sounds so different when_ he _says it?_ he mused. If Mummy used that name it was nothing but silly and childish and hopelessly ordinary. But from Gregory's mouth... it had another ring to it. A deeper quality. Familiarity, mutual supportiveness, built over years of having weathered some tough situations together. It sounded like the name of somebody who could be – and he shivered again – somebody else's _friend_. “It's quite alright, Gregory,” he answered at last, gravely, “don't censor yourself on my behalf.”

Gregory beamed at him with relief. His left hand reached out towards Mycroft but then stopped midway and dropped back. Mycroft felt bereft. “Just not in front of Sherlock, I might ask.”

“Sure. Wouldn't like to give the consulting brat fodder to wind you up.” They turned onto the main road.

Mycroft loosened his tie a bit and allowed his eyes to fall shut. The interior of the car was cosily warm, the windscreen wipers and Vivaldi amalgamated into a curiously lulling background sound. Gregory was humming softly along with the tune which reminded him of his father. The bittersweet taste of the chocolate was still on his tongue. The BMW's even cruising was gradually easing him to the gates of sleep. And _Gregory_ was here with him, his wonderful, glorious kind Gregory. Despite the nagging headache, Mycroft felt safe and warm, snug and at home.

The last thought that crossed his mind was that Gregory hadn't enquired about his address.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are many lovely recordings of Vivaldi's “Four Seasons:Spring” to be found on the internet, e.g. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l-dYNttdgl0


	4. Carry Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers, this chapter has taken a long time in making. Very sorry for that!
> 
> (I'm currently preparing another story that will be published very soon, so that's part of the reason why)
> 
> Hope you're still with me here. Enjoy! 
> 
> ♥ ♥ ♥

A warm bubble, that's what his car was now. A little piece of home on wheels, shielded from the dark and the wet outside. Greg sighed and shot a furtive glance towards the man in the passenger seat. Mycroft had dozed off before they had even reached the M4, wrapped in Vivaldi's music which had meanwhile proceeded to summertime.

 _Must've been more exhausted than he'd let on_ , Greg thought. _Christ_ , the bloke had all but collapsed on him in the lift! Greg's hand on Mycroft's arm had turned out to be much needed to keep him upright. To be honest, the ostensibly polite gesture had been rather selfish in fact; touching the man of his dreams had been too tempting to resist. _Jesus!_ Greg's left hand tingled at the memory of Mycroft's solid body beneath it. Feeling his muscles of his arm, his body heat through layers of expensive fabric... The sheer physicality of one Mycroft Holmes... Guiding him gently, attentively, to move in the direction he wanted... Them walking side by side, so _fucking_ close... Putting his claim on him for all the world to see...

The traffic required more of Greg's attention for a while. Londoners either escaping from or heading back to their city during rush hour were not the most patient of folk. He was grateful for the distraction of driving as it forced his mind from his passenger. Thus, when Mycroft suddenly murmured something indistinct in his sleep, it made Greg jump. A few words in a language he didn't recognise. Was that Japanese? He glanced over to the passenger seat and almost regretted it. _Holy shit, that bloke's dishy_.

Mycroft had leaned his head against the headrest, turned sideways, revealing an obscenely large amount of pale skin of his aristocratic neck. The slightly opened collar above the loosened tie – Greg swallowed – guided his eyes a bit further down to where he could glimpse a hint of hair peeking out. And coppery freckles dusted all over. _Freckles!_ Weather in Japan must have been sunnier to elicit them, a feat the wan wintery sun here had still to accomplish. Oh, the things he'd like to do to that neck. Slowly savouring each inch of that gorgeous yummy skin. Making him moan with pleasure... _Wonder how sensitive he really is there?_

 _STOP IT!!_ Greg gripped the wheel a bit tighter and turned to look ahead again, exhaling forcefully. _What kind of utter tosser are you???!_ His face flushed with shame, his heart beat faster. Thinking that kind of thought about the man who was sleeping at his side, exhausted and weary, that was just creepy – pretty despicable. The taste in his mouth seemed to turn sour. He breathed deeply again, and again. _Just drive, you arse! That's what you're here for. You're his driver tonight, so drive! Hell, you practically fell on your knees to Anthea to be the one to do that_. Blindly, he rummaged through the side pocket in the door to fish for a peppermint. It helped to freshen his mouth as well as his mind, and he felt less disgusted with himself, a bit. Slowly focusing on the traffic around him, he calmed himself. Too bad he had quit smoking, again. He could use a fag now.

 _Bugger!_ How had he not foreseen this? The effect that Mycroft would have on him. Being close to him in this _intimate_ situation, in a warm car, with music playing and lights down low. Greg ran a hand over his face and focused on his breathing. _Steady old boy. Drive, traffic._

He couldn't keep his eyes away from his passenger for too long, though. Whenever the situation allowed, he risked a glance to the side, discovering new details each time. The elegant curve of his mouth, relaxed but not slack. The arches of his eyebrows, slightly drawn, the vertical line between them. Headache, right? _Note to yourself: next time be sure you've got paracetamol in the glove box._ He gasped at the audacity of that thought: _Next time?_ Could he really hope to have Myke here again?

And there was more. His long-fingered hands holding the chocolate box delicately, almost reverently, in his lap. The way his lashes lay against his skin. A strand of hair or two escaping the strict discipline of his hairstyle. _God, that's... adorable._ The beginning of a five o'clock shadow – or rather a five o'clock fire in his case – showing on his cheeks and jaw. The softness of his features when asleep. He looked more human this way, approachable, younger, by at least five years. Greg could almost see the boy he had been. Vulnerable. And breathtakingly handsome.

 _Sleeping Beauty,_ Greg thought with an wry grin, _my Sleeping Beauty._ He wondered whether he should adopt the role of Prince Charming and kiss him awake once they arrived at their destination.

They left the motorway and plunged into the early evening traffic of London. Greg resolved to try moving through it without waking Mycroft, if at all possible. He clearly could use every moment of rest he could get. Not an easy task. And Greg was not a professional driver after all.

When he had to stop at a red light, Greg looked Mycroft's way again. Beautiful, indeed, in a strange reserved way. _It's not beauty,_ Greg realised suddenly, _not in the usual way at least._ Not the outward, superficial kind of beauty. No, the reason why he couldn't take his eyes off the man next to him was his display of _trust_.

Mycroft had been... amazing tonight. Upon meeting him unexpectedly at the airport, he had really been quietly delighted and hadn't walked away at the first opportunity. He had enjoyed Greg's company and hadn't been cross with him for long at the surprise pick-up arrangement. He had wanted it as much as Greg had. Called him 'Gregory', finally. Greg felt dizzy with hope at that thought. _Do you trust me, Mycroft?_ ( _A cliché line if there ever had been one, mate!_ ) Incredibly, Mycroft had. Trusted him, cautiously and in small steps but nevertheless. Mycroft, who was as open to spontaneous changes of plans as a medium-sized glacier. He had let Greg actually touch him and guide him and take him away. Trusted himself to Greg's care and didn't even mind the messy car, although it must have bothered him. What would have been more or less normal among normal friends, with him it was a gift so enormous it took Greg's breath away. And Myke's unmitigated delight, the way his eyes had brightened at the music, and that sound he had made when he ate the chocolate. _Good Lord Jesus!_ What was there not to adore about the man? And now he was sleeping right here in Greg's car, completely at ease, as if that was the most natural thing in the world.

The traffic light switched to green and Greg accelerated as smoothly as he could manage. Mycroft made a small disturbed sound like a soft moan, but did not fully wake. Suddenly he seemed to be more troubled, as if plagued by unpleasant dreams. _Sorry, sweetheart!_ Greg thought automatically. _Didn't mean to disturb you._ Then he stopped short, slightly amused. _'Sweetheart'? Well..._ And with a small guilty smile he stowed that endearment back to the secret corner of his heart it had come from.

As they threaded on through the streets of London, Greg heard Mycroft's breathing becoming more uneven, with mumbled half-words in-between. Should he wake him? he wondered. Maybe not, maybe just best get him home as soon as possible.

“No...,” came Mycroft's dismayed voice from the passenger's side, and under his breath, “...Sh'rlock...”

Greg looked over in alarm. _Shit!_ Mycroft turned his head heavily from one side to the other, frowning deeply, his expression pained.

“No... please... n't him,” Mycroft groaned. One hand reached for his tie as if he wanted to pull something from his chest, the other one tightened around the chocolate box, crumpling the card board. “Not Sherlock... please... leggo of'im!”

 _Bloody hell!_ Greg took a deep breath. _Don't wake him abruptly, talk him out of it!_ “Mycroft,” he said as calmly as he could, “it's alright. You're safe. You're with me...” He kept talking while scanning the street ahead.

“Please...” Mycroft pleaded desperately. “...Not my broth...”

“Sherlock's safe, you're safe. It's not real, Mycroft.” Greg found a spot to pull over and turned to his friend. “We're all safe. It's not real. Just listen to my voice. Sherlock's fine. We're all fine. Breathe, Myke.” He watched Mycroft's breathing even out a bit. “Yeah, that's my boy. It's all fine, Mycroft.” He debated briefly if he should dare to touch Myke but decided against it. Startling him awake could do more harm. Not to mention profound embarrassment. “I'm here,” he soothed instead, “I'm right here with you. Listen to my voice. You're safe. And Sherlock is, too. Everyone's safe.”

Mycroft's distress gradually ebbed away. His features relaxed and he loosened his grip. A final “Sherlock... please...”, then the hand at the tie dropped back to his lap, his movements stilled. Mycroft drifted back to more peaceful layers of sleep. And Greg was positive he heard a mumbled “Greg'ry” with that. His heart swelled at the sound of it.

He rubbed his face with both hands. _Phew!_ A couple of good deep breaths, then he slowly pulled out into traffic again. _Time to get us home, gorgeous._

By the time they reached the block of flats that housed Greg's small apartment the rain had stopped so they would not need to employ Mycroft's umbrella. Good. Greg parked the car and turned off the CD. “Mycroft?”

“Mmmmm?”

Greg put a tentative hand on the other man's shoulder, enjoyed the contact for a heartbeat and shook him gently. “Hey! Wake up, Myke! We're home.”

Mycroft opened his eyes and looked around owlishly. His magnificent blue-grey eyes were clouded in confusion while he grappled with the situation that he found himself in.

 _Look at you!_ Greg thought, wondering. _Beautiful and endearing at the same time. How d'you manage that?_ He half-expected to see him rub his eyes with his fists. _His mum must have some fond memories of a young Myke coming back to the land of the living._

“There you are,” Greg said fondly. He really would've liked the Prince Charming option.

“What? Where?” Mycroft sighed. “Oh... Gregory... Where are we?”

“My place. I picked you up at Heathrow, remember?”

“Mmm?” Mycroft shifted in the seat and tried to sit up straighter. Reluctantly, Greg withdrew his hand and turned to the dashboard. He ejected the CD and put it away deliberately slowly to give his passenger time to compose himself and to recall recent events.

“Why are we here, then?” Mycroft asked, still a bit disorientated. “Didn't you offer to take me home?”

“Er,... I practically had to twist Anthea's arm to learn what you like. I shudder to think what it would've taken to make her divulge your private address.” He gave Myke a roguish grin. “So mine it is tonight.”

Mycroft had straightened his tie and smoothed back his hair in an orderly fashion. _Pity, that_. He was Mr. Holmes again now, any resemblance to Sleeping Beauty gone. His forehead was creased again, whether from headache or confusion or the remnants of bad dreams, Greg could not say. Mycroft cleared his throat.

“There is always the option of me calling for a cab,” he said in a tense voice, “I would not like to impose upon anymore of your precious time than is absolutely necessary. Assuming that your plans for the evening will comprise more worthwhile activities than–”

“No way,” Greg interrupted him before Mycroft could wind himself up too much. “I'm your Valentine's card, remember? All yours for the day. And I take that assignment very seriously.”

Mycroft huffed a bit. “That's all very... considerate of you, Insp-... Gregory. And I really… appreciate your concern.” His gaze dropped onto the crumpled chocolate box. “But I assure you it's hardly necessary.”

“But it is,” objected Greg quietly. _Stop fighting me every single step, you stubborn git._ “I can't let you go home in your condition, not with no-one as company and half a lettuce leaf for dinner.”

“In my condition?” Mycroft almost hissed. “I'm perfectly fine. And my dinner plans are none of your business, thank you very much.”

Greg sighed. “I'm not your enemy here, Mycroft. Look at me, will you? Please?”

When Mycroft did, reluctantly, Greg had to stifle a laugh at the sullen look on his face. Sherlock's brother, indeed. Instead, he smiled. “Look, Mycroft, I may not be as observant as you or Sherlock – nobody is, probably – but I recognise a friend in need when I see one. So, as your _friend_ I'm asking you: Mycroft Holmes, will you let me have the pleasure of your company for tonight? Just wind down a bit, get some wind back under your wings? And a decent meal into you? Have a good time together even?” Greg knew this was his final offer. If Mycroft rejected this, couldn't trust him enough for this, then he knew he'd screwed it up for good and would have to give up. And forget about anything he might have dreamed about with this man. His throat grew tight.

Mycroft scrutinised him intensely, tried to read him, emotions warring in his eyes. There was hope and fear and suspicion and old pain. And a longing to believe, to trust, to connect. His breathing had gone shallow. “Gregory...,” he whispered at last.

“Mycroft...,” responded Greg, forcing his voice to be calm.

“You're considering me your _friend_?”

“That I am. And I hope you'll let me be yours.” He could not be more honest than that.

Mycroft exhaled, let go of something, and nodded. “Alright,” he said firmly, “But I shall not be mollycoddled.”

Greg found his grin again. “Right, no mollycoddling. Will take that to heart.” And in his mind he added, _Do you have any strong opinions regarding cuddling? Or kissing, for that matter?_

Their eyes met again, and Greg detected a tiny sparkle in Mycroft's. And a timid smile on his lips. They were smiling at each other now. _Friends_. One victory won. It was a temporary one, Greg knew, for now and here. _Prince Charming will have to slash at the thorny hedge many more times probably._

“So...,” he said, indicating the block, “this is where I live. Flat 17, second floor. You curious, Myke?”

“I'm shivering with anticipation,” Mycroft answered in that bored tone that Greg associated with Sherlock when he was being bothered by 'a mere three'.

Greg snorted. “Aw, c'mon, it's not that bad. You'll see.”

As they ascended the stairs to flat 17, Mycroft carrying his umbrella and the chocolate box, his faithful driver two steps behind him handling the bag and suitcase – and secretly appreciating Mycroft's rear view – the door to flat 16 opened. _Brilliant_ , Greg thought sarcastically, _just my luck_.

“Oh I thought it'd be you, Greg!” his neighbour Sharon purred from within, draping herself against the doorframe and drawing on a cigarette in an attempt to appear seductive.

“Hi, Sharon,” he replied neutrally.

“There's something in your step, you know. Something energetic, _masculine.”_ Sharon went on. “I'd know it from a mile away.” And she rearranged her revealing top, _just so_.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

“Erm, yeah, right,” said Greg, as he searched his pockets for his keys, standing at his own front door.

Sharon shot Mycroft a withering glance. “Any plans for the evening, Greggie?” She cooed and twisted a strand of her long hair around her fingers.

“Some,” Greg deflected as he put the key into the lock. “You?”

“Not as such.” She shifted and leaned forward a bit more to give him a better view of her cleavage. “You know how it is. A _lonely_ girl like me...” And she took another slow soulful drag from her cigarette.

Greg turned the key, not looking at her. “Have a nice evening then,” he threw back over his shoulder and caught Sharon sizing up Myke from head to toe, sneering. Mycroft had put on a haughty expression and did not deign to acknowledge her.

Sharon quickly arranged her face into what she presumably thought a seductive pout. “Sooo, if you ever get _bored_ ,” she drawled and shot another salvo of daggers in Mycroft's direction, “you know where to find me.” And she gave her hair another lazy twirl.

“Sure, yeah.” Greg had opened the door, missing the whole display. He turned to Mycroft, putting his hand lightly on his lower back, making sure his neighbour had a good view of that. _Get that, Sharon!_ “Come on in, Myke!” he said warmly. And with a disinterested “See ya!” at Sharon he ushered his guest into his flat.

 _Phew!_ Greg dropped his keys onto the sideboard and picked up his mail from the floor. On top of it there was a pink envelope with the name 'Greg' in a feminine handwriting and a big lipstick kiss on it. _Oh God!_ He quickly hid it beneath the other letters and junk mail and hoped Mycroft hadn't noticed it.

“ _Bienvenue à chateau Lestrade!_ ” he announced flamboyantly, “tours start every hour at the south gate.”

Mycroft was not so easily distracted, it seemed. “That woman,” he said pointedly, “appeared quite interested in your company.”

 _In my cock, rather,_ a naughty part of Greg's brain supplied immediately. Aloud, he hummed non-committally. “Umm... did she? She can do that, for all I care.” _And ten outta ten for noticing that, Mr. Holmes,_ his inner voice added unhelpfully.

Greg sat the luggage down and put the mail aside. “Right, er... may I take your coat?” And while he hung up Mycroft's coat and umbrella as well as his own jacket, he continued, “So this is my humble abode. Two rooms, kitchen, bathroom, and that's pretty much it. Central Line's quite close, though, that's a plus. And a decent local round the corner if you're into that kinda thing...” _Stop babbling, you idiot!_ He exhaled and ran a hand through his hair, leaving it distinctly tousled. 

Mycroft glanced at him and then looked around in the hallway. “Charming,” he remarked primly. Whether he was referring to the flat or to Greg's hair would be anybody's guess, though.

“Ta.” Greg took a breath. “Well, you still look a bit under the weather, Mycroft. Why don't you take a bath while I see to our dinner?”

“Now?” Mycroft gasped, wide-eyed, “in your bathroom?” A touch of pink coloured his cheeks.

“Yeah, sure.” Greg grinned. “Might not be as grand as you're used to, my tub. But it's clean and quite cosy. C'mon!” And surprisingly, Mycroft let him lead him into the bathroom, bringing his suitcase along.

Greg ran the water with a copious amount of bubble bath while Mycroft opened his suitcase to retrieve his wash bag. And blimey, what a bag it was. Vintage style, burgundy leather with brass clasps. And the initials 'MTSH' embossed on it. _Posh bastard!_ Greg thought with a smile.

He heard Mycroft gasp again as he recognised the bubble bath bottle in Greg's hand. “Anthea,” he groaned. It wasn't even a question any more.

“Yep.” Greg grinned at him. “That's what you get when you have that woman organise your shopping.” He took a spare toothbrush glass, filled it with water and got a package of paracetamol from the medicine cabinet, the two of them dancing around each other in the narrow bathroom. “Here,” he held out the glass and two pills to his friend, “for your head.”

Mycroft eyed him warily. “How did you know?”

“I'm a detective after all,” Greg reminded him, “I don't have to call on your little brother to see that your head is givin' you a hard time. Now be a good lad and take it. And no, that's _not_ mollycoddling,” he insisted, “it's called taking care.”

Mycroft obediently swallowed the pills and sipped daintily. “Thank you.”

Greg pulled some towels from the rack. “Here you are. Feel free to use as many as you want. And...” a thought crossed his mind, “... do you have something comfy to wear afterwards? No need to keep up full business dress code, right? I could lend you something of mine if you like.”

Mycroft blushed again. “That's hardly... appropriate, Gregory. I'm fine, thank you.”

“Yeah, well, whatever. I'll leave you to it then.” Before Greg turned to leave the bathroom, he allowed himself a long last glance. The most exquisite piece of British masculinity, standing in the middle of his small bathroom wearing a creased suit, with his wash bag in his hand and a befuddled look in his eyes – that image would be with him for a long time, he was certain. “Enjoy your bath, Myke!” he smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Bienvenue à chateau Lestrade!_ : (French) 'Welcome to Lestrade castle!'

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks a lot for reading! :)
> 
> If you like my story please leave a kudos or a comment. I'd love to hear what you liked and what didn't work for you. Your feedback and constructive criticism is always very welcome and highly appreciated. :)
> 
> Dear fellow Mystrade shippers, I'm very grateful for the wonderful supportive and encouraging comments you left here. They motivated me to continue with this story. Unfortunately, I don't have much time for writing and I'm not a fast writer. So, updates may take a while. Please be patient.
> 
> All the best! ♥ ♥ ♥


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